


hey girl, you are what i’ve been dreaming of

by guanxi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Crushes, F/F, First Kiss, Implied Sexual Content, Makeup Artist Miwa, Making Out, Model Alisa, Post-Timeskip, Sexual Tension, alisa is SO thirsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27761257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guanxi/pseuds/guanxi
Summary: Alisa swallows, and Miwa watches. “How’s Tobio doing?”Miwa’s smile is slow to spread across her face, but it’s illuminating. “He’s definitely having fun. He likes playing with the Adlers. They push him, Alisa. You know how he likes a good challenge.”Alisa’s throat is so dry it hurts. She swallows again and says, “Do you?”“Do I what?”“Like a good challenge?”Miwa’s hand burns where it cups Alisa’s cheek. She feels like she’s been branded, her face seared with Miwa’s fingerprints. “I think you know the answer to that.”
Relationships: Haiba Alisa/Kageyama Miwa
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	hey girl, you are what i’ve been dreaming of

**Author's Note:**

> just a couple quick notes:
> 
> 1\. in a fandom dominated by stories about men, i thought i’d include some much-needed diversity and write about women <3  
> 2\. not a whole lot is known about alisa, even less about miwa, so i took many liberties creating their characters and their interactions. i’m sorry if they aren’t the way you imagined them, but this is what made the most sense in my head.  
> 3\. i don’t know anything about celebrity culture, so i did my best to fill in the blanks regarding what a model’s life may look like, especially in japan. it’s not very important to this fic, anyways, so don’t worry!  
> 4\. i listened to lucid by rina sawayama on repeat while i wrote this, hence the title. i hope you enjoy!

“Alisa?” Her manager’s voice is quiet and tinny over the line, like he’s outside somewhere, sat in a warm car while rain beats relentlessly against glass and metal. To Alisa, it’s as though he’s speaking through a mouthful of water.

“Are you outside? I can’t hear you,” Alisa says, sitting up in her bed. She immediately mourns the loss as the balmy blankets slip off her torso, and the frigid air hits her bare arms. She shivers, and, following the staticky silence, says, “Hello? Everything okay?”

“Yes, sorry,” he says. “I’m on my way to the office right now. Just got a call about an Yves Saint Laurent advert that they want you on.”

“Hm,” is Alisa’s tired response. It’s so early, and her floor-to-ceiling windows capture that desperate dark, that yawning, black void. She blinks wearily, slides back down to cover herself with the duvet. The sun is a faint orange outline at the edge of the sky, red hibiscus moments away from blooming. “Do they need me this week?”

“Yes, the shoot’s on Thursday. I’ll call Miwa about it, okay? We’ll debrief properly tomorrow. You go back to sleep.”

Oh. Miwa.  _ Miwa _ .

Before Alisa can reply, her manager ends the call, and the bright light of her phone screen dims, then shuts off completely. She slips it under her pillow, smiles fondly when she remembers the time Lev reminded her, as spirited as ever, “Alisa, you can’t do that! The radio waves are bad for your brain!”

Alisa’s pale blonde hair is coming loose from its haphazard ponytail, but she’s too beat to do anything about it. She tugs until the covers come up, all the way over her head, sealing her into this tiny bubble of heat. 

Miwa. Alisa hasn’t seen her in two weeks, not since she modelled for that fall catalogue. She remembers Miwa’s hands in her hair, gentle as she shapes and curls, even softer on her face as she primes and paints. So much color; a sheer nude lip, loose gold eyeshadow, subtle orange blush. It brings her blood to a quiet simmer, and her bones shudder under her skin, knock around in discordance, like they can feel it, too.

When she falls asleep, she dreams of her body, reaching and reaching and reaching, straining, extending. She’s chasing something she can’t see or feel. She aches with it.

***

“Alisa, hi.” Miwa’s voice is low and gruff, like she’s just getting out of a particularly severe cold, like it hurts her to speak. Alisa hates how it makes her jump, how her pulse picks up, hammering away at the side of her neck.

“Miwa!” Alisa moves to stand, but Miwa places one hand on her shoulder, keeps her where she is. Alisa’s gaze is drawn to the mirror in front of her, where she can see them both. Miwa’s hair is just long enough to go past her chin, and it’s so dark, shines under the yellow glow of the studio lights. Her bangs are longer, now, and she’s swept them back, revealing the narrow slope of her forehead. Alisa imagines Miwa running her fingers through her hair, getting that swoop just right, and nearly collapses at the thought. 

Miwa’s hand is a gentle pressure on Alisa’s shoulder. She notices, absently, that Miwa’s fingernails are painted a rich navy blue, but the color is chipped, like she’s been picking at it. “How’ve you been?”

Alisa replies, “I’ve been good! Busy. But good. And you?”

Miwa nods. “Glad to hear it. I’m good, too.” A pause, and Miwa meets Alisa’s eyes in the mirror, doesn’t back down when they connect. “I’m gonna do your makeup first, okay?”

“Of course. Whatever’s easiest for you.” Alisa blinks, and Miwa’s dark eyes, almost black, are no longer fixed on hers. The sigh that subconsciously leaves her mouth is near-silent, but wistful. 

Miwa drops her hand, and Alisa’s exhale is unsteady, a quiet tremor. Miwa is so precise and calculated in her work, like she thinks four steps ahead, has already envisioned what needs to be done. Alisa can hardly keep up, but that’s why Miwa is here, isn’t she? “Tilt your head up,” Miwa commands, and Alisa obeys.

Miwa’s thumb is on Alisa’s chin, and she presses in as she adjusts the angle of Alisa’s face. “Perfect,” Miwa murmurs, and sweeps moisturizer over her skin. The pats the liquid into Alisa’s cheeks, her capable fingers brushing circles, and Alisa can feel the blood rising in her face. She’s so embarrassed, but if Miwa notices, she doesn’t say anything, and Alisa is thankful for that.

When Miwa works, it’s like everything else fades into the background. To Alisa, it’s almost as if Miwa forgets she’s decorating a face, that there’s a person attached to it. Miwa is a master of compartmentalization, and she so easily breaks down each component of the look, gets lost in the motion of it all. Alisa can’t tear her eyes away; they’re blown wide as she stares, oblivious to everything that isn’t the pursed line of Miwa’s mouth, the way her eyes narrow in concentration. Alisa wants to kiss the skin there, right next to each eye, trail down till she reaches her mouth. 

Jesus.

“Miwa?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you cut your hair?”

Miwa’s laugh is amazed, like it’s the last thing she expected Alisa to say. “No, I did not. Just pushed my bangs back, maybe that’s what’s different.”

“Oh. It looks really nice,” she says, fighting the shy smile that’s slowly surfacing on her face.

“It’s really nothing special,” Miwa articulates, “Especially compared to your head of hair. But thank you.”

Alisa scrambles to keep the conversation going, wracks her brain for what to say next. She loves Miwa like this, grinning like she means it, her eyes two delicate crescent moons.

Alisa swallows, and Miwa watches. “How’s Tobio doing?”

Miwa’s smile is slow to spread across her face, but it’s illuminating. “He’s definitely having fun. He likes playing with the Adlers. They push him, Alisa. You know how he likes a good challenge.”

Alisa’s throat is so dry it hurts. She swallows again and says, “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Like a good challenge?”

Miwa’s hand burns where it cups Alisa’s cheek. She feels like she’s been branded, her face seared with Miwa’s fingerprints. “I think you know the answer to that.”

Miwa’s eyes are the kind that scrutinize, the kind that are unrelenting, and she looks at Alisa like she’s going to eat her alive. 

“Do I?” The words that escape Alisa’s mouth are hushed puffs of hair, hitched and broken. 

“Guess.” Miwa’s voice is a rumble, and it shakes Alisa all the way down to her toes. Alisa is distantly aware that Miwa is currently tweezing her eyebrows, but the slight pain barely registers, because her pupils eclipse the green of her eyes, and her lungs constrict underneath her ribs.

“I think you do.”

Miwa smiles. “Bingo.”

Alisa is so flustered, what with the feel of Miwa’s hands on her face, the scratchy tone of her voice, the way she refuses to avert her attention. It’s never been so bad before, not in the tens of times Miwa has done her makeup, and that terrifies Alisa into a subdued silence.

***

The next time they see one another, something is different. Maybe not different, exactly, but it’s like every movement, every word, every sound is elevated, heightened to a level that is almost unbearable. Alisa was sure that last week’s intensity would be a one-off thing, but it’s most definitely not.

Miwa’s wearing a new perfume. Alisa can smell it as Miwa leans over her, filling in her eyebrows so they’re darker than her sandy hair. The earthy tones fill her nose, and she’s lightheaded, her skull blown full of hot air. 

Miwa’s more animated, too, her movements fluent, her tongue light. She’s humming something under her breath, a jazzy melody that catches in her throat. “What is that?”

Miwa’s eyes slant in confusion. “What’s what?”

“That song you’re humming. It’s lovely.”

Miwa, forever unperturbed, is suddenly red in the face. She’s a blotchy blusher, Alisa notes, and it’s so unexpectedly delightful. “It’s nothing,” Miwa forces out.

“No, seriously! I love it.” Alisa flashes Miwa an encouraging smile, even as her heart hammers in her chest, the incessant crack of a drum.

“Just something I wrote,” Miwa finally says.

Alisa’s eyes widen, genuine interest morphing her features. “I didn’t know you were a musician!”

“Careful,” Miwa says, casting the mascara wand away from Alisa’s face, “I almost poked your eye out.”

“Sorry,” Alisa whispers, but her voice increases in both sound and pitch when she continues, “But seriously! Why didn’t you tell me you’re a musician?”

“Musician is a bit of an overstatement,” Miwa mutters, fanning out Alisa’s eyelashes until they’re coal black and curl like burned sheets of paper, “I just write lyrics sometimes.”

“Still! That’s impressive.”

“Thanks, Alisa. You’re sweet.” The corner of Miwa’s small mouth curls up, and Alisa wants to lick it.

“I’d love to read some, if you let me.” Alisa commends herself in keeping her voice level and neutral.

Miwa frowns. “I don’t think you’ll be very happy with me if I let you see.”

“Oh.” Alisa closes her eyes, breathes in, holds the air in her chest. On the exhale, she opens her eyes, and finds Miwa looking at her, this odd expression on her face. “I . . . I don’t think anything you do or say could ever put me off, Miwa. You are and always will be precious to me.”

Miwa is content in staying silent. She turns to the counter beneath the studio mirror, replaces the tube of mascara in her hand with lipstick. She moves in on Alisa, leans in. Her hand on Alisa’s jaw is firm, and she swipes the lipstick on Alisa’s heavy bottom lip. Miwa’s eyes are trained on those lips, and Alisa watches Miwa’s eyes, the way her straight, dark lashes cast shadows on her rounded cheekbones, spidery and delicate. “Rub your lips together for me,” Miwa says, and Alisa does as told.

The tube of lipstick follows the edge of Alisa’s lips, almost reverently, as Miwa makes sure the color is evenly distributed and saturated. Her thumb comes up to wipe at the corner of Alisa’s lip, gently blotting out a stray spot of color. Once she’s satisfied, she looks up, meets Alisa’s burning eyes. 

“Hi,” Alisa breathes, and leans in. Miwa doesn’t move, not one inch, and just as their lips are about to touch, the door to the studio slams open, and Alisa’s manager barges in. Miwa jumps back, stands to her full height. She caps the tube of lipstick, turns back around to rummage among the hefty spread of makeup. 

“Alisa, you need to get out of that robe and be ready to go in five. The photographer has another appointment at two.”

Alisa nods. “Got it, thank you.”

He looks between Alisa, who’s still sitting in her chair, and Miwa, who’s propped up against the counter across from her. “Okay . . . ” he says, eyes flitting back and forth. And then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Alisa’s not sure who moves first, but within seconds, Miwa is on her, her hand easing its way into Alisa’s freshly straightened hair. She kisses Alisa with fervor, like she’s starving, pressing their mouths insistently together. Alisa groans, pulls Miwa’s compact body towards her, closer, closer,  _ closer _ , until she’s half in Alisa’s lap, cramped up against the side of the chair. Alisa’s palms, on either side of Miwa’s face, feel each quiver in her jaw, the way it contracts, then releases, as Miwa opens her mouth.

Alisa follows the motion, parting her lips so Miwa can pull her impossibly closer. Miwa’s tongue slides along Alisa’s teeth, against the roof of her mouth. The gasp that is torn out of Alisa has Miwa tightening her grip in Alisa’s hair, blunt nails at the base of her skull. 

Alisa’s hands push down on Miwa’s shoulders, and Miwa tilts her head back, breaking the kiss. “Hi yourself,” she responds, her hands impossibly tender as they brush away the hair that has been mussed into Alisa’s face. Miwa’s lips are fiery red with Alisa’s lipstick, smeared past the border of her mouth, and Alisa can’t help but laugh at the sight.

“Your mouth . . . ”

Miwa stands, turns around to look at herself in the lit mirror. “Oh, God,” she whines, covering her eyes with one hand. 

“Here,” Alisa says, reaching into her purse. She tries to hand her a pack of tissues, and Miwa grins coquettishly when she sees what Alisa is holding out to her. 

“Always prepared, aren’t you?”

“That I am,” Alisa beams. Miwa wipes at her mouth until most of the lipstick is gone, but a faint pink stain, nonetheless, is left behind.

“I’ll get rid of the rest with makeup wipes later,” Miwa says. “Let me fix you up first.”

She cleans up the skin around Alisa’s lips, her focus astounding. Alisa can barely keep her head straight, she’s so turned on, but Miwa carries on like everything’s okay. Like she didn’t just give Alisa the best kiss of her life.

“There,” Alisa says, stepping back to discard the used wipe. 

Alisa stands, too, and when Miwa turns back around, she says, “After the shoot. Come home with me, Miwa.”

Miwa’s body is perfectly still. One, two, three excruciating seconds pass, and she blinks. “Are you sure about this?”

Alisa is fierce when she says, “I am. I know what I want.”

Miwa reaches out, takes Alisa’s cold hand in her warmer one. Her gaze is earnest, more open than Alisa’s ever seen it. “I know what I want, too.”

“I’ll call you when I’m done, okay? Tell me where you are, and I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay, Alisa,” Miwa says. She stands on her tiptoes, pulls Alisa in by the graceful curve of her neck. Miwa kisses her cheek, ever so softly, and then releases her. “Didn’t wanna mess up your lipstick again,” she murmurs.

Alisa’s fingers glide through Miwa’s thick, blue-black hair, and she weighs each strand in her hand like it’s made of gold. “I wish you had,” she says.

Miwa’s cheeks are a charming patchwork of pink and white. “You need to go change,” she says, “Before I do something I’ll regret.”

Alisa’s arms wrap around Miwa’s strong shoulders, tying their bodies together. She holds Miwa there, head against the erratic beat of her heart, feels the patterns of their inhales and exhales sync. Miwa’s hands rest on Alisa’s hips, her thumbs digging gently into flesh.“There will be plenty of time for that later,” Alisa mouths into Miwa’s hair. 

She releases Miwa, takes one last look at her form, silhouetted in black, small, blazing, beautiful. She turns, then, and disappears into the changing room.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/iwaizuumis) !!


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